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| How a friend imagined the Palakkad countryside |
The city I grew up in was barely a ‘city.’ It was small, had no malls, not many clubs, and ‘night life’ was drunk men walking about the streets, hurling abuses at imaginary spectres. It was called a city, nevertheless, and I found the anonymity of city life comforting.
Every summer, however, my family would take off its city shoes and leave for my father’s home in the countryside. I spent many childhood summers in an ancient house in Palakkad.
The trip to the country was an adventure for me and my older brother. Amma would dress me and my brother in our best clothes, for our behaviour while we were there would be test of our parents’ efforts at bringing us up as good children. Before leaving, Amma would coach us on how to conduct ourselves. In the city, I was allowed to be a tomboy. But at Palakkad, I had to be a “girl”. “Don’t splay your legs out in front of you. Sit neatly. Always keep your hair neat. Don’t ask me stupid questions when we are there,” Amma would go on the day before we left. The plastic earrings my mother sent me to school in (for fear that I would lose the gold ones) were discarded. On the day of the journey, I was all decked up in gold and silver. My hair was oiled and neatly tied in a pony tail. I even had to wear kajal and a bindi. I was ready to take on the countryside and charm my way into my aunts’ good books.
The train journey was our favourite part of the trip. My brother and I would fight for the window seat. He usually won. I would have to wait until some passenger got up to claim my seat next to the window. We would eagerly wave goodbye to the familiar places of our city as we passed them by. The rest of the journey was a visual treat for eyes that were used to the drab landscape of cities. Green paddy fields stretched on for acres and rivers calmly flowed by. My father would point out the Chalakkudy River, the Kerala Kalamandalam, the Bharathapuzha and several other landmarks on the way. We never got tired of these sights no matter how many times we travelled on that route. We munched on hot parippuvada and pazhampori brought by the pantry staff on the train. My parents would sip tea in paper cups with the strings of Taj Mahal teabags hanging from their rims.
Soon it was time to get off at the station. My father insisted that we cross the railway lines carrying our luggage so that he could take his old shortcut home. On the way, he would stop to greet a white-haired old man he had known as a child. He would smile at us and we would smile back although we didn’t know who he was. We didn’t understand what he said to my father because he had no teeth and this distorted his speech. After he walked past, we would ask my father who he was and he would struggle to explain the long chain of relations that connected us to that rickety old man.
Our house was situated on an upward incline. The gate creaked as it opened and this would alert my aunt to our arrival. She came out and stood on the doorstep to greet us. We would lug our bags up the incline and deposit them by the door. We would stand there, panting, and survey our surroundings. The elders would comment on the health of all the trees in the front yard; starting with the number of fruits borne by the giant mango tree that had been standing near the gate since forever. Once this ritual was done we would go inside and freshen up. We would be served tea and then be left to our own devices.
My brother and I explored the house and the grounds. It was that sort of a place that managed to look old no matter how many times my aunt got the walls painted; nothing could hide the dust of the years that had settled on it. The clay tiles on the upper floor threatened to give away as we kids ran all over it. But despite its age, the house remained handsome and graceful; like my grandmother’s portrait hanging on the sitting-room wall.
The only person who ever walked around the compound in those days was the girl who came to sweep the grounds and keep it clear of weeds. My father and his siblings had left the old house to live in their own cities. An old aunt looked after the house while we visited her during the summer vacations.
The house came alive as my brother and I discovered its secrets. We uncovered an ancient telephone lying on one of the shelves, an old wooden badminton racquet in another, and so many other things that my uncles and older cousins had left behind on their way to adulthood.
I have left my home in my small city to seek my fortune in the crowds of a metro. A larger city means bigger and better opportunities. But there are times when the city leaves you feeling small and lonely. In those moments, memories of summer days spent in a small country town keep you good company.
